Chapter Text
POV Mestionora
I was sitting in my favorite spot in my library. Between my hands was a large tome, and as I opened the hefty book and my eyes began to travel across the lines of written text, the world around me vanished. And no, I’m not speaking metaphorically—it literally vanished. I was floating in a white space, alone. Just me, my chair, and the book in my hands. This way, no distraction could pull me away from the joy of reading.
Ah, there was nothing better than a good book. You see, books and knowledge are my domain; I am the Goddess of Wisdom. So you can imagine how annoyed I was when I started to hear someone calling me. This space I created specifically to avoid interruptions was suddenly invaded by Ventuchte, a subordinate goddess like myself and the Goddess of Weaving.
"Mestionara, Mestionara, stop reading! I have to show you something!" Ventuchte's voice carried a tone of urgency that I couldn’t ignore.
Reluctantly, I set my book down and closed it. The world around me began to shift once again. The empty white space vanished, and we were back in my library.
"Ventuchte, how many times do I have to tell you not to shout in my library? This is a sacred sanctuary for all knowledge, and it’s incredibly rude to yell inside. And why are you here? I already had my weaving class with you earlier. Wasn’t that torment enough for one day?" I said, clearly annoyed.
"First of all, what I have to show you is of the utmost importance. And second, weaving is a very important skill for you to learn, young lady. It’s part of your education as a goddess for a reason," Ventuchte replied, her tone equally irritated.
We’d had this argument countless times. And she wasn’t the only one who scolded me for spending all my time in the library. Kunstzeal also pestered me about it, though in her case it was about my art and music lessons. Worse yet, my mother, my aunts, and even my grandmother sided with those two, making my life even more difficult.
I wasn’t in the mood for an argument. All I craved was returning to my book. The sooner I got through whatever trivial matter Ventuchte needed to show me, the quicker I’d be back in the sanctuary of my library—immersed in the pages I longed to read. With a resigned sigh, I summoned the golden shumil, handed him the tome to return to its rightful place, and rose from my seat.
The room began to swirl and distort once more. This time, I found myself in Ventuchte’s sanctuary. She stood at my side in a chamber adorned with exquisite tapestries. Unlike the decorative ones mortal artists use, these tapestries told the entire saga of the gods and our Garden. Each tapestry chronicled a pivotal moment in our history, the woven images so vivid they seemed to breathe, blurring the line between memory and reality.
At the heart of the room stood a magnificent loom, its threads moving on their own as it wove the destinies of the mortals who lived within the Garden.
Ventuchte walked directly to the loom, and I followed her. The loom was just as always, weaving the lives of mortals. Nothing was amiss, well, nothing new at least. You see, when the Garden first came into being, the weave was vibrant, made of threads in shining colors. But over time, the weave began to lose its splendor and hue. Now, all that remains is a dull grey, and it's hard to pinpoint exactly when or why this decay began. Time flows differently here in the realms of the gods than it does in the Garden, where mortals live.
This is concerning.
Just recently, a massive number of threads snapped. Many human lives began to fade away. This issue has become a major concern for all of us. The Garden, while being the place where mortals live, is also a massive magical seal meant to contain my father Ewigeliebe, the god of life. His primary goal is to erase all life out of jealousy. He’s obsessed with my mother and seeks her attention for himself. In fact, he even tried to encase her in ice to ensure she would never live. It was only through the efforts of my aunts and uncles that she was saved from his grasp.
He even tried to kill me when my mother was pregnant with me, but that’s an ancient story I won’t bore you with. What you need to understand is that if the Garden falls, Erwaermen, my friend and mentor, will perish with it. You see, he was stripped of his status as a god and made the guardian of the Garden as punishment. He was blamed for what happened to my mother.
In the past, I tried to advocate for him, to prove that he was not guilty and did not deserve such punishment. But my grandmother, in her gentle way, convinced me to stand down and not object about Erwaermen’s fate.
Once we were in front of the loom, I inspected it, looking for something, but found nothing.
“I don’t see it,” I said, annoyed. “It’s the same dull weave. I don’t see anything out of place.”
“It’s not the weave, but the patterns that it's starting to form—
that’s
what you should be looking for, Mesti.”
Ah, the patterns. You see, the weave is the story of mortals, woven as you live your lives, all the choices that you freely make. And before you ask, no, we don’t interfere in your lives. You have free will, and all those free-will choices are represented here. The loom can only show the past and the present. The loom doesn’t predict the future, but sometimes it reveals patterns that suggest a possible path forward—shaped by the choices mortals make. It’s not certain; just a potential, woven from your decisions.
I am not particularly skilled at detecting patterns in the fabric—a fact Ventuchte never hesitates to remind me of, given how little effort I invest in her weaving lessons. It took me some time, but eventually, the pattern she referred to became clear. The realization sent a chill through me. My hands trembled, and cold sweat trickled down my back. The weave indicated the garden’s imminent annihilation. Unlike previous times, when such outcomes were mere possibilities, this prediction was a near certainty, as unyielding as the fabric itself. Never in all our existence had we faced something so absolute.
Frozen in place, a single thought consumed me: I have to inform the Supreme Couple. I turned to rush out of Ventuchte’s sanctuary, but her iron grip stopped me in my tracks.
“I know,” Ventuchte said, her voice calm yet insistent, “but that’s not all I wanted to show you, Mesti.” She took my hand, guiding me to another section of the fabric.
Once again, I stood before the weave, and this time Ventuchte pointed to a specific area. My eyes landed on a single thread—a vibrant, radiant red. It stood out starkly against the dull, lifeless tangle surrounding it. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. But as I examined it further, I noticed something miraculous. Threads that came into contact with the red strand had begun to regain their color, their brilliance.
“How?” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, still fixated on the red thread.
“As you know,” Ventuchte began, a knowing smile on her face, “when mortals are introduced into the weave, their threads shine with color and life. Over time, that brilliance fades—that’s the norm now, though it wasn’t always. This thread, however, hasn’t dimmed in the slightest. In fact, it’s restored vibrancy to others it’s touched. As for how ... why don’t you see for yourself?”
I stepped closer, hesitantly placing my hand on the glowing thread. In an instant, I was pulled into the weave, witnessing the life of its owner unfold before me. It was as if time froze; the entirety of her story passed before my eyes in what felt like mere moments. When I returned to Ventuchte’s sanctuary, my thoughts were racing. The implications were staggering.
Now, more than ever, I needed to speak with my grandparents. Without delay, I called one of the star children and sent a message, informing them I was on my way to discuss a matter of utmost urgency.
I appeared in the throne room. My grandparents were already there, I greet them.
“What is this matter of utmost urgency, Mestionara? Don’t tell me you’re here to complain about Erwaermen’s punishment again. No argument you bring will change our minds,” my grandmother said, her tone sharp and unyielding.
Her words cut deeper than I cared to admit. For centuries, I had tried to persuade them to release Erwaermen from his punishment and restore him to his rightful place. But now, my pleas had shifted. I wasn’t asking for his freedom anymore—just for his survival.
“No, it’s not about Erwaermen...” I replied, my voice barely audible.
Gathering my composure, I recounted everything Ventuchte had shown me earlier. As I spoke, I noticed their expressions shift from dismissive to deeply concerned. My grandmother summoned Ventuchte to verify my claims, and the goddess confirmed every word I had said.
“This is dire news,” my grandfather said, his voice heavy with irritation. “The last time we imprisoned Ewigeliebe, it required a monumental effort. And even then, we barely succeeded. There’s no way the same strategy will work again. He’s had eons to plot his revenge, to prepare for the moment he regains his freedom. This time, we face a far more formidable foe.”
Why were they speaking as if the garden’s fall was inevitable? Their words made my stomach churn. They spoke of strategies and battles to come but ignored the one truth that mattered most to me: if the garden falls, Erwaermen will die. It was as though his existence meant nothing to them.
I quelled the anger and dissatisfaction brewing within me and continued explaining the red thread and what I saw when I touched it—the soul of a young girl named Myne. Frail and delicate in appearance, she was nonetheless endowed with an indomitable will, which was undoubtedly the key to her survival. But that alone wasn’t what made her remarkable.
You see, when mortals die, their souls are reincarnated. They may be reborn in the same world or sent to a completely different one, depending on the systems each realm’s gods use to manage souls. However, one universal truth binds these cycles: souls lose the memories of their past lives. Why this occurs remains a mystery, even to us gods.
Yet this girl, Myne, defies that rule. She remembers her previous life, carrying the knowledge of her former world into her new one. It is this fusion of her extraordinary mind and warm, tenacious personality that has revitalized the weave, breathing new life into its dull threads.
“I have a proposal,” I said after explaining to my grandparents about the girl named Myne. “It is evident that these changes in the weave are due to the introduction of new knowledge into the garden. Why don’t we allow some mortals to retain the memories of their past lives? Surely this would accelerate the recovery of the weave and prevent its destruction.”
“No,” my grandmother replied instantly, without a moment's hesitation. “I have heard from gods of other realms about souls capable of retaining fragments—or even the entirety—of their past-life memories. Such individuals are exceedingly rare and are typically characterized by an unusually strong will. While it is possible to implement what you propose, it is not something we should even consider.”
My grandfather spoke next, his voice tinged with skepticism. “We cannot guarantee that the knowledge these individuals possess would be compatible with our world—or even useful. There is also the matter of their personalities. I have heard accounts from gods of other realms where these individuals, instead of aiding their worlds, caused immeasurable chaos. In some cases, their meddling led to the destruction of entire realms.”
I was disheartened by my grandparents’ answer. Was there truly nothing we could do? Were we to sit idly by and watch as the garden crumbled, powerless to stop Erwaermen’s demise?
“Although... there might be merit in your idea, Mestionara,” my grandfather said thoughtfully, his tone contemplative. “Introducing new knowledge to restore the weave does hold potential.”
I looked up at him, hope flickering in my chest. “Then... are we going to restore the memories of some mortals?”
“No,” he said firmly. “Our answer on that remains unchanged—it’s far too risky. However, we might be able to make use of the girl from another realm.”
My grandfather fell silent, his expression pensive. My grandmother turned her sharp gaze toward him, waiting for him to elaborate.
“It would be difficult to accomplish,” he continued, “but perhaps we could negotiate with the god of another world—one whose knowledge is compatible with ours—and send her to gather knowledge on our behalf.”
My grandmother’s eyes narrowed as she glared at him. “You have to be joking,” she said, her voice cold and cutting.
Before my grandfather could respond to my grandmother's outburst, I interjected.
Why dismiss the idea so hastily? If restoring the memories of past lives to mortals is deemed too great a risk,” I began, keeping my tone steady, “then why not utilize the girl who has already proven herself to be without malice? Myne’s actions demonstrate that her knowledge is not only practical but also instrumental in rejuvenating the weave. Entrusting her with the mission of gathering knowledge from another world, while offering her appropriate compensation, would undoubtedly be far less hazardous than risking open conflict with my father.
My grandmother crossed her arms, her expression a blend of disbelief and concern. “And who will guarantee that this foreign god won’t exploit our predicament? Negotiating with other realms has always been a precarious endeavor. Not to mention the girl herself—what assurance do we have that she won’t become a threat once she gains more power and knowledge? Mortals are unpredictable, Mestionara. Even those with noble intentions can change.”
My grandfather nodded thoughtfully but countered, “That may be true, but it is equally true that this girl has achieved remarkable results in a short time. Denying this opportunity could risk the garden’s very existence.”
My grandmother turned toward him, her gaze sharp and piercing. “And what of this supposed god from another realm? Who will manage the negotiations? And who will take responsibility if something goes wrong?”
He gave her a small, knowing smile. “I was hoping you would be the one to conduct the negotiations,” he said with a touch of humor. “As for responsibility, I’ll bear it entirely.”
After a lengthy debate, with arguments flaring back and forth, my grandmother finally relented. “Fine,” she said at last, though her tone remained sharp. “But mark my words—if this goes awry, it will not be easily forgiven.”
With that, we began drafting our next moves.